


Control

by ThisLullaby (Diminua)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub, M/M, Mild S&M, Oral Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28015731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diminua/pseuds/ThisLullaby
Summary: From a prompt on Bondkink, which I think is pretty much defunct. 'During the showdown with Max, Mallory describes Q as "my quartermaster" in a very proprietary way, and then talks about how talented he is. So now I want to know more about these 'talents' of Q's, and how Mallory discovered them. Prefer a totally consensual relationship, but one where M is very much in charge.'OP suggested daddykink or D/S, and I've gone for D/S, although M definitely has a thing for how much younger Q is.
Relationships: M | Gareth Mallory/Q
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

‘You wanted to see me sir.’

‘Yes, Q, I did. Close the door will you? I imagine you know what it’s about.’

‘My letting 007 take the car?’

‘Amongst other things.’

M caps his pen and sets it down before sitting back to study his Quartermaster - framed rather nicely by the door he’s just closed - from his frankly horrible suede boots to the top of his glossy, unruly head, and all the browns and taupes that shade between, striped wool and loose-fitting trousers that hide his lovely pale skin and the shallow bruises of lovebites.

Q is passive as he waits for M to continue. Well-trained.

‘I want to be clear about this.’ M says. ‘I’m not questioning your autonomy. I’m aware that a great deal of the value of the vehicle was in your labour, which you have always provided above and beyond your contracted hours. Also, that if you wish to fly off on ‘holiday’ in your free time and not tell me what you’re up to you are perfectly within your rights. However,’

He pauses. Q says nothing. Hands behind his back. M allows himself a small smile.

‘However, I do still find myself wanting to put you over my knee and spank you. So my question is – can you think of any particular reason I shouldn’t?’

‘Not really.’ Q corrects himself as an eyebrow arches. ‘I mean no. Sir.’

Mallory lets another silence stretch for three, four, five seconds, before he nods.

‘Good, then that’s agreed.’ He uncaps his pen again. ‘Just dinner tonight though, don’t you think? I’ve made a reservation for eight. Let’s hope nothing of national importance catches light before then.’

‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed.’ Q teases.

‘Be as cheeky as you like, my sweet. Just as long as you remember there are consequences.’

‘Always sir. Will that be all?’

Mallory sighs. ‘I suppose it had better be, given how busy we both are.’

It’s not what he really wants. What he _wants_ is to stalk around his desk and back Q up against the padded leather of the door, graze his lips against Q’s ear while he tells him, in explicit detail, just how much trouble he’s in. 

What he _wants_ is to demand Q not put himself at risk, not be so dangerously loyal to people he considers friends.

What he _wants_ is to lock his young Quartermaster in the gilded cage his genius deserves, or kick a certain Double 0 all the way around the London inner ring road.

But that would be crossing a line he knows he mustn’t.

Instead he reminds himself that he’s a very, very lucky man in many, many ways, and returns to all these bloody reports that need signing off.


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the week slips quickly by. Q branch is never exactly quiet, and Q is excellent at focussing his attention where it needs to be. And only there. If M thinks Q is due a good spanking, then Q only has to wait to be told when. Meanwhile, there is work, and dinner, and tumbling into Mallory’s dark mahogany bed with it’s headboard of straight hard posts worn smooth where rope has been twined around them, tugged and knotted beyond Q’s reach, and a central oval against which he has braced his hands many, many times.

Or there’s his own place, where he can wallow in cushions and cats and late night coding binges.

He’s still not sorry he helped 007 ride off into the sunset like he wanted to. What with one thing and another (being shot by one of their own agents, having his flat sold when he went AWOL, the usual psychological wear and tear of kill or be killed _and_ the frankly Euripidean tragedy of his personal life) Bond’s earnt it.

But M hasn’t asked him to be sorry, has he?

He _has_ asked Q branch to build a better car, which they can absolutely do – there is always something, once anything is created, that engineers will want to improve – and Q walks Tanner through the new specs when he comes down for his weekly update.

They’re both fairly sure that Bill – Q thinks of him as Bill, although he’s always Tanner in working hours – knows something is going on between them, but as long as they’re discreet about it, will never ask what. He’s a very private man himself.

Anyway they’re old news now. Eve, who had seen Q come out of Mallory’s office in various shades of flustered, and was bright enough to notice that M often drove himself home on the nights he supposedly gave Q a lift, had startled him just once on his way past her desk by asking him if he was happy.

‘Yes of course.’ He had replied, unguarded, and since then, as he obviously didn’t want an interrogation, she hasn’t given him one.

He doesn’t think anyone else has noticed. They’re never less than professional around their colleagues, and M has clear rules about when and where in the building he might let himself be less than that. 

Rules for himself, of course, since Q is not allowed to instigate, either at work or otherwise.

He finds himself very responsive to Mallory’s caresses though, and M is generous with them when they’re alone. Lips on the back of his neck or hand, fingers combing through his hair. A palm moving smoothly from the handbrake to Q’s knee, sliding slowly up his thighs. Slipping down his chest while he is still drowsy and warm from the many blankets M lets him pile on the bed, even though he doesn’t need them himself. Gliding over his belly, to play with his soft, sleepy cock until Q wakes properly.

He has only once woken up with M actually inside him, after a frankly horrific trip to Moscow that he still doesn’t see the point of: three days of trying to talk through interpreters even though both he and the person showing him around spoke French, three nights of being encouraged to drink more vodka than was good for him in case he offended anyone by refusing, and as much of his prescribed-for-flight tranquiliser as he thought prudent.

It had been gentler that he’d expected, actually, waking like that, with M rocking into him slowly and deeply, reassured that he was home, safe, warm, held close.

Q hadn’t come, on that occasion, but it had been proof of just how tired he was that he really hadn’t minded. Usually they’re difficult, the rare occasions that M decides to leave him twitching and sticky and coming down from intense, unsatisfied arousal, while he himself is sated and smug and ready for sleep.

In retrospect though, sitting at his desk remembering what a bastard M can be when he likes, Q finds he’s turned on all over again.

What was that he was thinking about being able to focus? 


	3. Chapter 3

‘Were you planning on doing anything Saturday afternoon?’ M asks, late on Thursday, while Q is waiting for Agent McCulley’s extraction to be confirmed, and Tanner has stepped out to collect a pizza from the front desk while it’s still hot.

‘No, nothing.’

‘And Sunday morning?’

‘No sir.’

‘Good. I’ll pick you up about three o’clock on Saturday then. Bring something soft to wear around the house. Nothing that’s tight or abrasive.’

It’s the casual way he says it that makes heat flare at the base of Q’s spine again, the easy way he invades Q’s personal space, reminding him of the few extra inches of height M has; the squeeze of his hand on Q’s upper arm, slight but possessive. Q stills completely, eyes resting on the knot of M’s tie, passive until he feels a hand cup his chin, thumb running along the line of his jaw as Mallory tilts his head back and kisses him, short and sharp, before releasing him again.

‘Three o’clock.’ Q confirms, before Bill comes back, tactfully waiting five seconds between triggering the overhead lights in the larger workshop and walking through to Q’s own small office. Where Mallory is perched on the edge of a metal table against the wall, and Q back behind his laptop, and it’s all so innocent it’s positively suspicious.

Three o’clock. Cat feeder primed, clothes packed – soft, dark brown yoga pants, calf length and well worn, a butter-yellow singlet that Q suspects Mallory will tell him not to bother with while they’re indoors, and a hooded cardigan, just in case they do go out.

M is there on the dot, a CD of Louise Ferrenc strangely apropos as he steers them through the weekend traffic. Q, whose mind works in patterns, can see the radiating lines out from various shopping outlets, the short stop-start to the suburbs, the back and forth of notes up and down the keyboard with bright, elegant, emphasis.

M’s fingers tap the steering wheel in time to the music, shape around the gear stick as he shifts it, then reach for Q’s right hand, thumb stroking the sharp angles of his index finger, the soft, vulnerable webbing between finger and thumb, the solid pad of flesh at the base, the intricate tendons lower still, at the wrist.

_‘Do you like being held down?’_ _Mallory had asked once, close up and crowding and barely breathing the words. ‘Tell me, I want to know.’_

_Q had answered while not answering, shifting his hips against M’s own, mind fogging with arousal._

_‘Just be careful of my hands.’ He’d pleaded._

_‘Always..’ Mallory had promised, and meant._

He closes Q’s hand more fully in his own and cups it over the gearstick for Q to change gear whenever M orders him to, up and down in small steps at traffic lights and junctions while M resumes drumming gently along to the music again. There’s still an upright piano in the house he sometimes escapes to at weekends – where they’re heading now – and despite his lack of regular practice, he can still play.

He supposes he should sell the place really – it’s much too big and he's hardly ever here – but the cats had liked the garden on the few occasions they’d brought them along, and it feels private in a way his London flat somehow never does, despite it’s sophisticated security. He can feel the tension ease from his shoulders as the gates swing shut behind them, as the door closes, as Q automatically makes for the kitchen to put the kettle on.

‘Coffee for me.’ He’ll want a proper drink later, after, but a clear head for now. ‘Get changed and bring it into the snug when you’ve finished.’

‘Hmm.’ Q agrees absently, busy measuring out lapsang souchong and Kenyan peaberry, somehow divining that the last instruction wasn’t meant to be an order.

M watches him a moment longer, then leaves him to it, shedding his own jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves as he goes. 


	4. Chapter 4

Three Years Previously

Gareth wonders how many times he must tell himself that this is really not appropriate before it sticks.

Even if they didn’t work for MI6, even if Q were not his direct subordinate and younger than his own nephews, it would still be inappropriate to want him this way. To want to redden his pale neck with kisses, with nips and shallow bites and stubble burn. To want to buckle those slender wrists in leather cuffs and lay stripes across that narrow back, to take fistfuls of that glorious mass of hair and press his cock inexorably between pink lips, to gag him and paint his face with come, and watch it drip, dilute with saliva, down Q’s chin.

He needs to stop, he’ll drive himself mad, thinking like this, indulging himself in these late-night fantasies, touching himself when he’s alone. Q would be undoubtedly be shocked – horrified – if he knew.

The truth is, he should have quashed it right at the start. Even if it was relatively innocent at first – a vague curiosity about the obviously lithe form Q keeps hidden away beneath too-large cardigans and hideous checked trousers – he knows what he’s like. Knows he can’t – has never been able to – want anyone in a nice, innocuous, sweetly vanilla way (although there are those daydreams as well. Red wine and steak dinners, feeding Q up, keeping him warm, sitting him on his lap.. well no, perhaps not vanilla, that one.)

It’s just as well, isn’t it, that he wouldn’t have a hope anyway? That Q is young, and brilliant, and beautiful in his coltish, rather ethereal way. When Gareth was Q’s age he thought men in their fifties were past all that. Never gave a thought to their inconvenient, libidinous, imaginations.

It’s a sour sort of thought, even as he tries to tell himself it’s a good thing. After all, he’s not actually hurting anyone. If he knocks it on the head from this moment, no-one else ever needs to know.

Which decision reckons, of course, without his quietly unobtrusive and ever-observant Chief of Staff, hesitating after Q has just met with them both about the revised budget for ‘armour’ (which these days mostly means bullet proof vests and windscreens).

‘Has Q done something to upset you sir?’

‘Upset me?’ Mallory affects to look surprised. ‘Goodness no. Why do you ask?'

‘No reason. It’s just that you seemed to be avoiding his eyes. I know the projected spend..’

‘It’s not about the projected spend.’ M hesitates. ‘That is to say, it’s nothing.’

‘Very good sir.’ He can tell he’s not believed, which is just as well. He doesn’t want to gaslight Tanner of all people, a man who has proved himself trustworthy a hundred times since Mallory got here. The only person who knows him well enough yet to be honest with him.

Besides, he _wants_ to tell someone. Get it off his chest.

‘Can you keep this to yourself?’ He asks.

‘Oh course.’

‘The only problem I have is that I find our young quartermaster somewhat distracting. Which is very much my problem and not his.’

‘Ah.’ Tanner mulls this a moment. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Short of putting bromide in my tea, no.’ M says drily. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

It doesn’t get easier. Now he’s been alerted to the fact he acts differently around Q he’s hypersensitive to it. Tries not to look away all the time. Doesn’t want to offend the man.

Looking leads to watching though, snatching glances and cataloguing expressions, the wry twist of Q’s mouth, the way he bites his lip when he concentrates, hazel-green eyes focussed behind his glasses, fingers moving confidently over the keys without even a glance towards the keyboard.

The way he takes orders, quick and quiet and competent.

Perhaps it’s a reflection in the screen that finally tips him off, or the glass walls of his office. Something he catches in his peripheral vision, late one night when almost everyone else in Q branch has gone.

Something that makes him look up, sharp and curious, before Mallory is quick enough to look away, or leisurely enough to seem casual.

‘Oh.’ Q says, straightening up fully, his voice and face betraying that he’s just worked something out. Worked M out. As though his superior officer were a puzzle piece that didn’t fit exactly where he’d thought it did. ‘That’s alright then.’

‘Is it?’

‘Well, better than you not wanting to work with me, wouldn’t you say?’

He pauses, his damn lip between his damn teeth again too. Mallory is this close to offering to bite it for him.

Instead he steps back.

‘Although it does seem a little kinky.’ Q says, after they’ve both given him a moment to think. ‘I mean what with..’ His hand describes a loose gesture that is presumably meant to take in their difference in status and age.

‘Yes.’ Mallory says tightly. ‘I think its fair to say I have a fetish or two.’ He backs up a bit further. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and.. be elsewhere.’

He isn’t even halfway out the door before Q speaks. ‘I don’t mind you know. Actually, I’m rather curious.’

‘Curious?’ He’s been wanting and wanting and now the little monster says he’s _curious_? 

‘It’s my besetting sin.’ Q jokes, trying to lighten things. Tilting his chin up as Mallory turns back, ignoring the small still voice that keeps insisting that this is a mistake. He’s never thought repression was particularly healthy anyway.

Without breaking eye contact he twitches the loose end of Q’s tie free from his tan cardigan and winds it around his hand. Reeling Q in. 

‘I don’t think you’d know sin if it bit you.’ He says softly. ‘I think you’re a good boy, aren’t you?’

Q’s eyes go gratifyingly wide, a delicious colour starting to rise in his cheeks. ‘Yes.’ He says uncertainly. ‘If you like.’

‘Do you want to prove it?’

‘Sir.’ Q’s throat works, flustered. ‘I don’t know how.’

Mallory lays his other hand against Q’s cheek, stroking back into that silky soft hair. He feels indulgent, now that Q is floundering. Feels powerful. Fluffing Q’s feathery curls with a touch.

‘On your knees.’ He says.

Q does as he’s told. Surprised, in a detached way, to find his body already responding to stimuli. His skin growing hot in his clothes, his trousers tightening across the waistband where usually they hang from him.

‘Do you want..’ He asks, fingers hovering inches from the answering bulge sheathed behind well-cut trousers and whatever M favours beneath them.

‘That would be nice.’ He agrees, the fisting of his hand in Q’s hair, the tightening hold on his tie belying the mildness of his words. He isn’t hurting him though, just keeping him in his place while Q undoes the fly of his trousers, lashes dark and shadow-cast in the overhead lights, takes a taste, a short, almost feline, lick at the head of Mallory’s cock, pushing it back against his belly, not quite hard yet.

’You’re a bloody tease.’ Mallory scolds. ‘Do it properly.’

Then immediately, and in complete contradiction, tightens his grip to arrest all movement until Q looks up in confusion.

‘You don’t have to.’ He clarifies. ‘You do understand that don’t you?’

‘Yes sir. I understand.’ Q agrees, docile as you like. ‘And you can pull my hair harder than that by the way.’


	5. Chapter 5

Q has, unsurprisingly, done this before. He’s not porn-star perfect, but he’s got a fairly shrewd idea that’s not what M wanted anyway. M wants him off balance, fingers closing and relaxing again in his curls, the tie keeping him up on his heels, mouth watering, some expensive wool and silk blend suit beneath his hands.

Glancing up makes his throat go dry, flick his eyes away again, almost shy. There’s no suggestion of M’s earlier unease. Only a predatory pleasure, cracks just beginning to appear in the usually immaculate façade.

Q is suddenly seized with a childish determination to shatter that composure completely, thwarted as Mallory pulls him back again, determined to string this out, moving to thrusting only shallowly, smirking as if Q should be grateful for a taste. Planning.. something. Fuck knows what, Q certainly doesn’t. 

‘Easy now.’ 

M knows full well he’s being a bastard, relishes the sweetly aggravated noise Q makes in his throat as he’s pulled away again, but he’s just on the edge of losing himself in the pleasure of Q’s mouth, and that won’t do at all. He needs to keep control. Needs to teach Q to stop fighting it, move in when Mallory pulls, fall back when Mallory lets him.

He can feel the moment the young man gives in, hands relaxing against his hips, no longer bracing and anchoring, and when M pauses to pull Q’s glasses free he is not surprised to find his eyes closed.

He sets them down on the desk behind him with a small click, and resumes, still leisurely, fingers twining in again to make new curls, rewarding Q for his patience by pulling harder, the way Q suggested he likes, by letting him take more of the length, letting the fine edge of his control unravel a little.

‘Good boy.’ Q feels a frisson go through him as Mallory says it, what’s left of his rational mind surprised by how aroused he is, on his knees being petted and praised, how badly he suddenly wants to be good. How it’s almost nice, actually, to just let someone else take the reins and not have to think.

M knows what he wants. Q only has to do as he’s told.

M can feel his self-restraint disintegrating, familiar gluttony swallowing it whole. Lust is a compulsion, a desperate urge: to drive hard, to overwhelm and take and have. 

Early days, early days. He claws the impulse back before it can make him do something that might scare someone. Deliberately loosens his grip and grants Q the option to pull away. But he doesn't seem to want to - only moves back slightly, getting a mouthful, half of which escapes to be wiped on the back of his hand, and the rest inexpertly swallowed.

Mallory tidies himself up, even buttons his jacket. Takes his time composing himself.

Q tugs his cardigan sleeve down to cover the smeared mess he’s left on his shirt and wrist, pushes his hair out of his eyes as he sits back.

‘What happens now?’ He asks, squinting slightly without his glasses. Still on his knees, M notices, apparently not uncomfortable there. 

‘Well for a start I think you should come upstairs for a drink.’

‘Right.’ Q almost jumps to his feet, starts to pulls his cardigan tighter, obviously meaning to button it.

‘No.’ Mallory’s hands are gentle but firm, closing over Q’s own and drawing them away.

‘No?’

‘No.’ He picks up Q’s specs and sets them delicately on his nose, then lets his eyes linger, very deliberately, from where Q’s erection is distorting the front of his trousers, then slowly back up to smirk, albeit somewhat fondly, into those inquisitive eyes; then moves to steer Q out of the room with a hand in the small of his back.

‘Upstairs, Q. Now.’


	6. Chapter 6

They don’t meet anyone on the lower levels on the way to the lift, but it’s not until they’re standing side by side facing closed doors that Q breaks the silence.

‘It seems you have a control fetish. If there is such a thing.’

‘I have a dominance fetish.’ Mallory corrects him smoothly. This is actually more familiar territory now. Negotiation. Explanations. All rather less uncomfortable than an unrequited crush.

‘Ah. I’ve heard of that. Doesn’t it usually involve..’ Q realises his tongue has run away with him. Also that Mallory is watching him in the overhead mirror, one eyebrow raised. ‘I don’t know. Manacles and things.’

‘Sometimes. Does that sort of thing interest you?’

‘Up until twenty minutes ago I didn’t know kneeling interested me.’ Q points out. ‘I mean, obviously it’s always been the most practical way to..’

‘Give head.’ Mallory finishes for him, since Q has left the sentence unfinished.

‘But it’s not.. normally.. a thing for me.’

It occurs to M that if they are going to continue with this he is going to have to train Q to the same precision in language when discussing sexual matters that he effortlessly manages to use about his blessed machines. In the meantime he tries to help him out with his words again.

‘Thing: Fetish? Turn on?’

‘Bit of both.’ Q admits as the lift dings and Mallory shepherds him out, his hand resting on the small of his back as they advance down the nicer, plusher, less well-lit corridors. Up here you can feel how late it is not from the emptiness, but from the hush. They might almost be alone in the building.

Or they might run into security. M suspends conversation until they’re back in his office, letting Q precede him and going to pour drinks. Small ones, given the circumstances.

‘You knew you liked having your hair pulled though. Can you tell me what it is about that you like?’

‘I just do. Never really thought about why.’ Q admits, taking his drink and looking into it as if it might have all the answers. ‘You’re very calm.’ He adds, in the same voice he uses when prototypes fail to explode.

‘Oh, I don’t like to lose control. Also the calmer I am the more flustered you seem to get, and I’m rather enjoying that.’ He indicates the chair. ‘Please, sit down.’

He perches on the edge of the desk himself, a full foot and a half higher than Q, and within reaching distance. Stopping him from automatically rolling the chair backwards by pressing the leather sole of his shoe hard against the nearest wheel.

‘No.’

‘Sorry.’

M only sips his drink for answer, watching closely as Q tastes his. Glances up and away and up again.

‘There’s no need to be nervous. I just like looking at you.’

‘I just.. I’m not sure what you want.’ Q goes to set his glass down, catches Mallory’s eye and thinks better of it. Takes another, obedient, sip.

Which is lovely, and just little worrying. M swirls his glass and takes a moment.

‘What I want is open to negotiation.’ He says frankly. ‘So let’s talk about what you want. For example, are you not wondering when you’ll get to come yourself? Honest answer.’

‘A bit. Not that much.’

‘So if I sent you home now you’d be perfectly satisfied?’

‘Not satisfied, no. I’d be disappointed actually. You’re not finished with me. You’re enjoying it too much.’

‘But you don’t want to get off?’

‘No, I _do_ , I just,’ Q tries to think. Honest answer. ‘I just don’t know if that’s what this is about. And I can always go home and deal with that myself.’

Mallory leans in. ‘What if I told you not to? That you had to wait.’

‘I could try I suppose,’ Q takes another tiny, almost homeopathic, sip, before he continues talking, a look of absolute confusion on his face, ‘are you going to tell me to do that?’

‘Not yet. Perhaps some day. I’m just trying to get the measure of you, Q.’

Q makes a sound of amusement, a small huffing sort of laugh. ‘Difficult since it looks like I don’t really have the measure of myself.’

‘Not at all. It’s rather charming. Besides you’re still young.’ Mallory swallows the last of his drink. ‘Which, as you have already realised, is a fetish of mine. Albeit one I do try to keep control of. Power imbalances are exciting but upsettingly open to abuse. You must tell me if I make you uncomfortable.’ He anticipates Q’s next words. ‘In an unpleasant way.’

Then he lifts himself off the desk and goes back to his drinks cabinet to set down his glass.

‘Drink up Q. You’re right. I haven’t finished with you yet.’


	7. Chapter 7

Three years later

Q changes quickly, while the tea is steeping and coffee percolating, ignoring the faint sound he can hear of M shifting things about – the snug is the smallest of what might be called reception rooms, one wall cut short where the staircase turns overhead, and mostly furnished with the sort of modular furniture Q associates with hotel receptions – armless armchairs or ottomans with legs – and built-in bookcases that once (M tells him) held encyclopaedias and board games. 

When he comes in he realises that the seating has been moved to make one long continuous bench along the far wall, with M seated in the middle, his jacket and tie discarded to his left, and an obvious space for Q to sit remaining on his right.

It occurs to Q, unbidden, that this is meant to make it easier for him to crawl over M’s lap and be spanked with his right – that is to say his dominant – hand.

‘We’ll see how you do with that,’ M suggests. ‘before we consider moving on to the paddle.’

‘Sir. I would..’

‘I know you would.’ M interrupts, because of course Q would, and has before now, but Q also cannot work out whether he actually enjoys pain, despite both their best efforts. Can’t disentangle it from all the rest – seeing M possessive, and being marked, and submitting to things he wouldn’t necessarily choose – all of which he definitely does get off on. It’s messy.

Only complicated further by their busy work schedules of course, by not wanting everyone to know, by having to snatch bits and pieces of time.

But there’s a lot of trust there, as M slides his thumb into the warmth of Q’s mouth, watches his eyes go unfocussed, then close as he strips him of his glasses again.

‘You remember your safeword?’ He asks, and Q nods, very slightly, so as not to dislodge M’s thumb. Being infantilised like this makes him blush, some last vestige of embarrassment that should surely have been burnt out of him by now.

Still he misses the comfort when M takes his hand back. Sips on his tea to warm himself again.

M waits for him to finish, hands his own cup over for Q to set down on the nearest bookcase.

‘Now.’ He says, and tugs – not hard – on the painfully yellow top Q has apparently decided to wear (he takes pleasure in Q’s hideous clothes sense, his occasionally awkward jokes, the fact his eyesight is so bad without his glasses that he has to concentrate to set the mugs down safely. All the soft, vulnerable things about him.)

Q crawls over his lap, careful, squinting slightly, until he’s where M wants him, his face half buried in M’s suit jacket, already reddening further even before M pulls his trousers down.

He’s close enough to find M’s tie easily when he’s told to.

‘Double it over and loop it round your wrists. That’s it, use your teeth. Bite down.’ M hopes he ruins it with drool and tears. The jacket too.

Q’s bottom is soft skinned and subtly plump, his body braced on knees and elbows, head up where he’s tugging on the tie like the good boy he (normally) is. Mallory’s fingers sink into his arse cheeks barely at all before they find the sleek, sparse muscle beneath. It doesn’t take much pressure to thumb those cheeks apart, nudge the furl of muscle, then down almost to his balls and back to nudge again, feeling it give and relax automatically, Q’s hips twitching reflexively against his own.

‘Easy now.’

He smacks him without warning. Squeezes briefly, does it again, pushes his legs a little way apart, so he can brace better, lets his fingers trail lazily down Q’s inner thigh, teasing the wiry hairs that are thinly spaced here.

Lets the palmprints from the first smacks fade before he smacks him three times in succession.

Then again. Three times. Q makes one whimpering sound, broken off by yet another slap, and gets himself back in hand before he gets three more.

The prints are overlapping, his bottom reddening all over, and M pulls him up a bit higher, gets his hand between Q’s legs and fully around the downy skin of his balls, relishing the shiver of pleasure he knows he’s introducing into the punishment (small wonder it’s all so hopelessly tangled in Q’s mind). 

He rakes his nails back, shallow, not really hurting but threatening it.

‘Do you know what happens to naughty boys?’ He asks, just a hint of anger breaking through, enjoying the heat of it, the headiness. Q guesses, correctly, that he is not expected to respond.

He wants to though – to justify himself, apologise, promise to be good - but M doesn’t want that yet. Clearly doesn’t want that yet. Smacks him again as if to drive the thought from him.

Q realises he’s been counting when he stops - ten, twelve, fifteen, and then just noise, as M spanks him without pause. Until his palm smarts, until Q is breathing erratically around the twisted silk of M’s tie, and his knees have slid so far apart and away that he is resting entirely on M’s lap, and his head has bowed against his forearms, wrists loosened, fingers clutching.

‘Sit up a minute.’ Mallory is hard, cock and heart and determination right now, tugging the tie from between Q’s teeth to tie it properly around his wrists, still mindful of Q’s precious hands.

Hard, and not over his anger, and he wouldn’t mind fucking Q’s wet and trembling mouth, rubbing all over his tear-streaked cheeks.

Or, if Q is up for it, there’s the paddle. With Q on his belly, his teeth digging into the lining of M’s jacket at M’s encouragement, his bottom darker with each stripe laid down, the textured handle rough against M’s over-sensitised palm, and Q panting and squirming and laid out like an offering, like a promise.


	8. Chapter 8

He’s meticulous with a weapon in his hand, always has been. Q is almost at the point where it’s too much. Just one more and then – yes, that is enough, he can tell from the tremors as he lays hands on Q again, pulling him sideways, dragging him over the weave of the couch, the piping that edges each piece. Q drags the jacket with him, collar still firmly clenched between his teeth, gagging himself more thoroughly than M would dare to gag him under these circumstances, his breathing ragged.

He’s left on his knees, bottom out, face to the wall, while M sits on the coffee table in the middle of the room, and nudges Q’s knees further apart with his well-shod foot, stretching the soft fabric of his yoga pants, the yellow top already rucked up around his shoulder blades.

‘Calm down.’ M says, as if it’s as easy as that. Q tries to glance back over his shoulder, but it’s all blurred and hopeless and a nudge with the toe of M’s shoe discourages him from trying again.

‘Just breathe for me.’ Q’s nerves are alight. He can almost feel those eyes rake over him, savouring, calculating. Can smell M in the weave of the jacket, tries to do as he’s told, just breathe in, breathe it in, until he starts to calm.

‘There, isn’t that better?’ Fingers on him again, careful over his bruises, pressing in to assess the damage. ‘ _God_ you’re lovely.’

The table scrapes the carpet, kicked back, and M is kneeling, fingers greased, pressing in. Q relaxes as they push and scissor, moans only quietly, smothered, as M twists his fingers and adds another and Q can feel nothing for the arousal. Everything is dark silk and hands and that purring, demanding voice, and Q throbs, keens, pressing back shamelessly.

‘You little tart.’ M murmurs, pressing thumbs in now, pulling Q’s tender arse cheeks apart, watching himself sink into the heat of Q, slowly enough that he can feel Q’s thighs tense under his hands, trying to push back, to get more.

Its delightful, flattering, but it won’t do. Not this time.

‘Keep still.’ He says, and Q does, immediately, without conscious decision, letting his weight fall forward onto his elbows, biting down in frustration now as M relishes it, taking in what he’s done to Q, what he’s doing, dragging it out, delaying the inevitable. Clinging to the last shreds of control until the very last moment he can bear and then, like a shift up through gears, he moves quicker, and quicker again, until his hips are smacking steadily against Q’s enflamed skin.

He presses his palm around a skinny hip in passing, feeling his way past a jut of bone, a softer belly, to curl firmly around the robust shaft of Q’s cock, barely managing two full strokes of it before Q is coming, hissing and biting down again as his over sensitised arse continues to be pounded. But M is cursing now too, desperately close, smearing Q’s cum down his thigh as he tries to grapple with it, the silly metal legs of the ridiculous furniture rasping and digging into the pile of the carpet as he drives deep, chasing that one bright hot wonderful moment that breaks and fills and empties him out again, threatens to take his knees out from under him, and leaves him weak and lazy and deeply, and wholly, satisfied.

It takes a surprising amount of energy to pull himself up on the sofa, tidy his trousers and coax the arm of his jacket free of Q’s mouth, untwine the tie from his wrists and check for damage (to Q. Sod the fucking tie, frankly), press a kiss to his forehead.

Q doesn’t speak, mind completely blank. It would be unsettling if he were capable of being unsettled right now. Instead it’s quite nice, being fussed over, even if his arse is still raw and seeping. It's familiar.

‘Here.’ M throws his poor abused jacket down on the carpet for Q to sit on. ‘Kick your trousers off.’

He strips him of his top too, loops his arms loosely around Q's shoulders, settling him back between his legs so they can enjoy just.. _being_ for a bit. 

In five minutes or so they’ll stumble up the stairs and run a bath, in three minutes or so Q will probably want his glasses, but right now, all that can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there will be more of this, but that this wraps up this section - how they got started, and where they are at the close of the last film. The next bit (if I don't dry up) will probably go back in time again, and beyond the scope of the original prompt.


End file.
